


The Landing

by JohnandSherlock



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-03
Updated: 2017-09-03
Packaged: 2018-12-23 13:10:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11990484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JohnandSherlock/pseuds/JohnandSherlock
Summary: After Mary's death and the Euros fiasco , John has moved back to 221b. For the first time the tension left by the fall has no barrier- no Mary, no case to be solved- and so John and Sherlock confront their feelings. (I am so bad at describing things I'm sorry.





	The Landing

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Thank you so much for reading! I'm asexual and can't write kissing scenes AT ALL so kissing had to be limited in this fic I'm sorry. Also, constructive criticism and advice is very much appreciated. I'm @livingforlotr on Instagram and twitter! :)

Sherlock felt like he was standing on the edge of a knife, in the face of falling into unknown and unprecedented depths. Something was wrong with John and he couldn’t pin point what it was. It made his stomach turn. It wasn’t Mary, not today. When John was upset about his late wife he avoided Rosie, his ever -present reminder of all that could have been; today she rolled on the floor at his side on her gym, sending brief cooing sounds off into the air and winning John’s radiant smiles with her gurgling fits of laughter. There was something else that troubled John, and it made Sherlock feel like John was speaking in a language he didn’t understand. John meant more to Sherlock than he would care to admit, the fact that he couldn’t tell what was upsetting John, couldn’t comfort him was like a slap in the face. People always thought that John was straightforward, the stoic Horatio to Sherlock’s chaotic Hamlet. They thought that he was solid and reliable like a heartbeat. In other words, people took him for granted; but heartbeats stop. People have a part of themselves that lies dormant the majority of the time but sometimes that part can’t be contained any longer and bubbles to the surface. Everyone has a part of themselves they would rather hide and for John that was his emotions. Yes, he was caring, yes he was able to tell what was “a bit not good”, but that didn’t mean he wanted his own emotions on display. Today, emotions rose in him like a flooding river and John couldn’t have looked further from discussing it. His jaw was set, his brow was furrowed and the cold eyes looked as if they might bore a hole in the newspaper that his small hands gripped like a drowning man would grip a raft. Despite looking at the newspaper, he wasn’t reading it. His mind was off somewhere else, and Sherlock wanted more than anything to bring him back, to talk about whatever thoughts were tearing his peace of mind to shreds; but they had never been very good at talking, had they? They had always hidden behind a case, behind a pretence and at times like this Sherlock was sick of it. There were so many pretences, so many lies. John clearly did not want that to change, so Sherlock followed his lead and pretended to read his novel. It couldn’t have been more boring. The fire crackled, reprimanding their silence. It was joined in this by the clattering of the aged window under the assaults of wind and rain. The room was cloaked in darkness- not only because of the fading light of an already overcast day but because of the efforts of moth- eaten curtains that didn’t match. Sherlock couldn’t help but notice the way the fading light danced with the flecks of green in John’s blue eyes. He looked away.  
His eyes fell on the mountains of clutter that, though they had irritated John at first, neither of them were bothered to confront. The unearthly tension that sat between them explained to the piles of battered books and clumsy case files that they simply were not a priority. The kettle whistled, demanding attention now that it had completed its task of boiling the water which made Rosie giggle- her giggle didn’t make John smile this time. He just sighed as if the world was weighing him down and rose to standing with much groaning and silent protestations. He shuffled limply to the kettle, following their unspoken agreement that he would always make the tea, looking so tired, so lifeless. Something was definitely wrong.  
“Do you want me to make the tea?”, murmured Sherlock, trying to be there for John in a very small way.  
A cruel chuckle escaped John, “No Sherlock, you just look after yourself.”  
Shit. On an average day, this cutting comment would have been received as the normal bickering they shared; this wasn’t the average day. It wasn’t even the average month. Sherlock couldn’t deny that since John had moved in with Rosie after the Euros Fiasco, things had taken a turn for the worst. John had retreated into himself.  
Sherlock’s stomach sank. John was annoyed and it was his fault. Sherlock didn’t blame him, in fact most of the time he was surprised John wanted to be his friend at all.  
Abruptly rising from his chair, with the intention of going to John, with the intention of ending the pretences and drowning the silence, it occurred to Sherlock that he was the last person John would want to be comforted by. He probably wanted a thousand miles between them. The thought of it took the air from Sherlock’s lungs.  
“Are you okay?”, the words spluttered out with feeble weakness, Sherlock didn’t know what to do or say. He just knew he had to fix it, he had to fix them.  
John stood in front of the kettle, looking at it but seeing something else. He squeezed his eyes shut, his breaths coming heaving and fast as he leaned on the work top. Sherlock felt he might be sick.  
“So, you actually noticed?”, John’s voice was paper thin, it wavered as if he was holding a lifetime of emotions back.  
“What is it?” As Sherlock spoke, he was beginning to think he knew exactly what it was. His voice was small. John was still refusing to look at him.  
It wasn’t just Mary, not just Sherlock- but everything. Everything that had happened over the last seven years, the fall, Mary’s death, Mary’s secret life as an assassin, the war; they had all been weighing down on John for longer than Sherlock had realised. It had been noticeable in brief moments, Sherlock had caught it in glimpses but it had always gone away. It seemed that over the last month or so, John either couldn’t hide it anymore or didn’t want to and Sherlock couldn’t decide which was worse.  
He didn’t know what to do. Neither of them said anything because neither of them knew what to say. John couldn’t find a way to express the thoughts that whirred through his mind. Sherlock couldn’t find a way to comfort John, he wanted to hold him- he was so close. It would have been so easy, but he didn’t do it. He just stood there. They were two islands, utterly isolated from each other and yet desperate to reach out, desperate to connect on a level they had always told themselves was not an option because the other didn’t want it.  
“I can’t do this anymore, Sherlock”, the words seeped out of John like slow, torturous drips from a tap, like he was reluctantly dishing out a death sentence. In many ways, he was.  
Sherlock felt like he was drowning. “Do what?” He couldn’t breathe.  
“Live here, with you. I- I can’t do it, Sherlock, I’m sorry.”  
As John spoke his voice went out of focus for Sherlock, everything went fuzzy. He was a million miles away from their quaint kitchen in 221b. There was a ringing in his ears and his vision blurred and his throat tightened and he felt if he didn’t sit down he would fall over.  
Mycroft’s words from what now seemed a lifetime ago floated back to him.  
All lives end, all hearts are broken, caring is not an advantage, Sherlock  
Caring is not an advantage.  
Caring is not an advantage.  
Caring is not an advantage.  
The words whirled round his head like they were ghosts bent on haunting him. In that moment, it felt like the truest statement in the world.  
“I understand.” After everything Sherlock had done it was naïve to think everything could go back to the way it was before the fall, before he ruined everything.  
“I know it’s confusing, I just…” John seemed to be disappearing into his own world. Sherlock knew what that was like, sinking into a merciless ocean of thought that threatened to drown you. Their relationship had always been based on them saving each other from themselves. John had always saved Sherlock with the utmost ease; and here he was, floundering like a fish out of water as he failed to return the favour. All he had ever done was bring John trouble and John was leaving as a result.  
He couldn’t bear the thought of living without John in the flat, of nights spent choked by his own company and the empty chair across from his bringing him more pain than a thousand knives. Even worse than that was what would happen to John if he was alone. John could cope with anything except loneliness, yes, he’d have Rosie but she was just a baby. He would spend all his time either looking after her or avoiding the task in favour of self- destruction. John would float further and further back towards the lonely soldier with the walking stick and a gun in his desk drawer and it made Sherlock want to both punch a wall and hold John in his arms for ever.  
“John, we should talk about this.”  
“Oh, and what is there to say exactly?” John was spitting fire.  
“Why are you doing this?” John sighed gently.  
He had no answer for this, their eyes met and the rest of the world disappeared and Sherlock tried to hold John there with his eyes, hold him in their flat, in his life- but John looked away.  
“It’s the best thing for both of us.” He sounded detached, but Sherlock was sick of being silent.  
“Speak for yourself” Their words fell like punches, both of them spitting sharp retorts without thought of hesitation.  
John laughed, but it wasn’t cheerful. He turned to face Sherlock as if he was his executioner. His face was completely blank of all expression. He looked at Sherlock with a dead stare that to most people would have looked emotionless, like that of a shark. Sherlock knew John better than that. He was screening everything.  
John cleared his throat very deliberately. “How can you say that?” A slow, silent tear ran down his cheek. The mask was fading, and the bravado of anger slipped away to reveal a raw despair as John’s bottom lip quivered.  
“How can I say what?” Sherlock was failing to remain composed, he was being torn to pieces and there was nothing he could do. Everything he had ever wanted was falling away from him.  
Surprise and confusion paraded across John’s face without the cover of a façade. “How can you say, “Speak for yourself”, Sherlock, because that implies you actually care that I don’t live with you!”  
John was shaking like a leaf. Each word was forced out as if it was more difficult than the last. He was fighting for breath with each moment. Sherlock had never wanted to protect anyone from the world more in his entire life.  
“Of course I care, John-“  
“No. Sherlock, shut up. Don’t speak, don’t try to think of the next witty reply, just listen,” John stopped, he took a deep breath. He did it again. He pressed his hands to his forehead to compose himself. He had stopped crying but Sherlock had started. “You’ve never cared. You pretended to be dead, without so much as a phone call and only came back because of a terrorist threat. I didn’t come into it.”  
Sherlock said nothing. He had never told John about the snipers and he still couldn’t because that would make every feeling he had buried glaringly obvious. That could never happen, John would flee like a criminal from a crime scene, John would hate him; so he looked at the floor and said nothing.  
“I mean nothing to you Sherlock, I’m just someone you show off around so that you can get gratification.” He said each word as if they were flames burning his mouth, “But I suppose I was an idiot to expect anything else? Who could expect the magnificent Sherlock Holmes to tolerate boring old John Watson?” As he spoke that last sentence his voice cracked.  
John shook with the fury that ran through his system after years of being caged up inside him. He was spitting fire, and that fire transferred to Sherlock, he felt betrayed. Sherlock had always thought that he and John fit perfectly together, that they were two jigsaw pieces custom made to be attached to the other and thus had hoped that after his absence they could slip back into place. Never had he been so wrong. He had put John in danger when Magnussen had shown up. He had caused Mary’s death. He had brought John into the path of Euros- and still thought John would stay by his side.  
He had blamed Mary, hated John for shoving Mary between them, but hated himself more. Usually he could tell himself that it didn’t matter that he and John weren’t together, that John’s happiness was his first priority; but now that Mary had been dead three years and still nothing had happened between the detective and the doctor, such a standpoint became all the more difficult to maintain. Sherlock tore through his brain for words but couldn’t find any.  
The flames of John’s anger were beginning to die down, you could see it in the softening of his eyes and the flames shirked away as if met by water.  
He looked right at Sherlock. “It was easier to pretend with Mary around, she was a buffer between us so we didn’t have to face the fallout of everything you did. We were distanced because of her and when she was gone I began to hope that maybe, just maybe we might be able to go back to what we were, but that chance was dead.” He stopped abruptly, as if realising he’d said too much and he looked like a rabbit in the headlights. He trembled timidly, and Sherlock could see the cogs working in his brain as they tried to convince him that he hadn’t said too much, all the while he tried to keep the mask of his upright soldier’s stance. The wall John had built to hide his feelings was crumbling and he was using every ounce of energy to put it back together. He lost the fight.  
“You ruined everything when you left and we’ve spent day, after day since then trying to force things back together but it isn’t happening.” He spoke as if he was discovering this for the first time and as if what he found made him want to sleep for a year.  
“Well,” spat Sherlock, unsure of whether he was comforting John or criticising him, “it’s a good thing you had Mary, isn’t it?” He clung to the work top, his knuckles whitened.  
John ran tiny, scarred hands, over his tired face. His fingers pulled at his hair. It was clear that any physical pain was better than what was going in inside him. There was a long pause, with the two of them just looking at each other. Time moved with the slow methodical plodding of the indifferent.  
“I find this sort of thing difficult, Sherlock, I really do- but do you honestly think that me and Mary were anything compared to what you and I were before?” As John spoke, a change had come over him, like a spell had been cast. He breathed those words as if they were a prayer that was so important but painful to say, he put every ounce of his pure and tender soul into those words, melting Sherlock’s heart. Sherlock’s mind was racing, no, his heart was racing. Was John implying that the two years they had spent together, as an undefined term somewhere past friendship, meant more to him than the relationship he had had with his wife? The thought of it made him breathless.  
Another pause took its place between them, but this time it was different. This pause was filled with the visits of memories they had tried to ignore. They remembered a candle lit dinner at Angelo’s, John willing to die to save Sherlock in a darkened swimming pool, John missing his date to protect Sherlock from himself after he thought Irene’s death would set him back- they saw everything, just the two of them against the world. Sherlock took a step closer to John.  
“John, do you mean that?” His voice was low, as if he was afraid, afraid of the fact he could say this aloud, of where it might lead. “You married her.” The words were supposed to be a reminder to both of them, and yet their eyes locked.  
“Yes, I did, but you’d gone away,” John had entered unknown territory. He knew what he wanted to say, for the first time in his pathetic and menial life he was ready to say what he had always caged up behind corners of his soul and it scared him so much but he knew that he had to say it and so he felt like a rabbit sprinting in hunt of the right words and so they all came out of him like rushing currents from a burst dam.  
“I loved you Sherlock, I loved you so much.” His eyes were glued to the floor, afraid of what they might see if they rested on Sherlock.  
“John-“  
“Sherlock, just listen.”  
Sherlock had lit up like a Christmas tree, in disbelief and awe at what John had just said. His eyes were filled with a whirling light that John had never seen before. He smiled a smile that personified sunlight as his breath quickened with hope. He was so full of Sherlock. Sherlock was in his every thought, every corner of his mind. John wanted to smile with him, wanted to take his hands and believe what he had always wanted to believe; that they could be together- but no. He had to arrange his thoughts. Life had taught him not to hope for much, so he forced the image of Sherlock jumping from Bart’s Hospital into his mind. He forced himself to remember all the harm Sherlock had done to him; the nights spent alone clutching a can of look warm beer, hours of kneeling in front of a gravestone because the person buried beneath was your whole world, nights spent pretending that Mary was enough. He played these memories on a loop in his head and looked away from Sherlock. Giving yourself up to the person you really love makes you too vulnerable.  
“I loved you once but you ruined that.”  
Sherlock panicked. John had love him, the thought set him on fire. He had loved John in ways he could not explain. For him, finding John had been like finding a clear stream in a barren dessert after years of thirst. John loved him and it felt like everything was falling into place, he felt like his entire life had been building up to loving John and receiving love in return. No, they were not perfect. They fought. They bickered. They hurt one another. They forgot to get the milk and left eyeballs in the microwave- but they were human, two humans who loved each other rather a lot.  
Then the latter half of John’s statement registered with him.  
but you ruined everything…..  
It was the worst form of cruelty, to know that there could have been something between them if he had not destroyed it. There had to be a way to go back, this couldn’t be it. To find out that John had loved him but that the feeling had died because of Sherlock himself would be too much. The thought was unbearable.  
“John, I love you, I love you, I love you.” he clung to John’s hand like it was a lifeline, but then it was a lifeline. He had never held John’s hand in sincerity before and yet he couldn’t bear the thought of letting go, it felt like a part of him that he had always been missing. He didn’t know what to say or do and he knew he was acting desperate but he didn’t know what to do. In fact, he couldn’t even control what he was doing it just happened, like the impulse of a child.  
“You said you loved me once, you could love me again!” Every syllable oozed desperation. He knew it was probably pushing John away but he couldn’t stop himself.  
John looked like he’d been burned.  
Sherlock knew he was acting like a stupid white girl in a bad 90s movie, or a Disney princess but he profoundly did not care.  
John took a slow, deep breath, squeezed his eyes shut and straightened his stance.  
“You love me?”  
His answer came as quick as instinct, and as he breathed it he became brave enough to place his hand on John’s cheek, light and timid as a feather.  
“God yes.”  
John flinched.  
“Then why did you jump?”  
John’s voice was as thin as ice. Sherlock didn’t know how to explain. There was only one way to explain- by telling John about Moriarty’s threat. Was there even a way to explain it? How could you put all that in words?  
“I can show you.” It seemed like the only way as memories of nights spent in lonely captivity, the lashes of a whip and Russian curses came flooding back. Yet those were not the harshest memories. The harshest memories were of him hating himself for leaving John, seeing the light leave John’s eyes as he had jumped and knowing that John would grieve-hoping for it even, because the thought of John being able to move on from him almost immediately was unbearable. He had jumped because he loved John. He had suffered torture because he loved John. There was no way to put that kind of transcendent emotion into words.  
John looked confused more than anything else. He nodded his consent.  
Sherlock moved to unbutton his shirt. He had to show John the scars from Russia, had to show John that his two years’ absence had not been a holiday, but rather a sacrifice made to save him. Fury took hold of John.  
He chuckled loudly.  
“No, Sherlock I want an actual explanation, not……….. showing off!” John was shaking now.  
“I-no! I’m not..” In his panic Sherlock didn’t know what to say, “I’m not showing off, I’m explaining just bear with me, John. Please.”  
Sherlock took John’s silence as permission to proceed- but then fear grabbed him by the throat, as it very rarely did. What if telling John all about Moriarty’s threat wasn’t enough? What if John still couldn’t love him?  
He knew that he had to take the chance, he had let too many chances die.  
So, he inhaled deeply and took that chance.  
The buttons came undone one by one, like soldiers falling in a war, taking away the defence that had hid Sherlock’s scars- his only solid proof that he would die for John Watson. His shirt fell like rainfall, fell to the floor without so much as a sound. John folded his arms, cleared his throat and looked away.  
“I still don’t get it.” Sherlock could tell he was fighting to keep his voice devoid of emotion.  
Sherlock shut his eyes, and turned around. He hears John’s breath catch in his throat- and then? Silence. Minutes of it. Though Sherlock couldn’t see John, he knew he was fighting not only emotions, but questions.  
It felt strange, even though he hadn’t told the whole story yet. It felt strange for Sherlock to show the scars he had fought diligently to hide. It felt strange that he was about to tell John how much he loved him, that he may actually be on the threshold of John loving him back and- no. That was not a certainty, he couldn’t think about that.  
Then John reached up and traced the scars that ran up and down his back like tear stains with his index finger, igniting nerve endings Sherlock didn’t even know existed, setting him on fire.  
John swallowed. “Sherlock..”, you could hear the pain in his voice, “What happened?”  
Sherlock couldn’t find the words.  
“When did this happen? Who did this to you?” John sounded furious.  
And so, Sherlock told John everything, and it took a lot.  
“Moriarty’s Russian network. After I-.” He paused and turned to face John’s distraught face.  
“After the fall, I knew I had to take down Moriarty’s network or they’d destroy us.” He fidgeted with one of his curls, “I was captured by the Russian network for six months. They tortured me until Mycroft got me out and took me back to London.”  
Then there was a long pause. John didn’t know what to think or say and it felt like a battle was raging inside him, in which pity for Sherlock fought reason. He chose a side.  
“And where were you, exactly, for the other 18 months?”  
“I was-,”  
“Yes. I know Sherlock. You were taking down Moriarty’s network. Getting rid of every last inch of him, but you know what? You could have told me. You could have communicated.” He was shouting now, every last word oozing with emotion that before this he never would have dreamed of expressing. There was no stopping. He had passed the point of no return.Sherlock looked like a child who had thought he had lost everything, but kept losing more and more with each passing moment.  
“I have spent my whole life telling myself that connecting with people is dangerous, Sherlock, because it leads to you getting hurt. All throughout the war, all throughout my childhood life taught me that letting people in was suicide, the best way to ensure getting hurt. You were the first person, in so long, that I allowed myself to love. Being by your side on all those cases was huge for me, and I thought it was huge for you too.”  
He stopped, taking in deep breath after deep breath.  
“I was stupid enough to think that you had a heart and that you cared about more than work, that you cared about me. I mean I know it wasn’t perfect, I still held myself back and had girlfriends and denied every feeling I had, but I thought you did too and that we could exist together in our own little way until we could talk about feelings and that sort of thing, but I was wrong. When you jumped you proved that your work was more important to you. You say you love me Sherlock, and I want to believe it, I really do, but I can’t. Too much has happened and I really, really can’t- so, there.”  
He looked like a man who’d just vomited. He was very pale.  
Sherlock shook his head. He couldn’t think, couldn’t speak. The fact that John thought like that and felt like that knocked him senseless. John may have wanted to give up, but Sherlock decided in that moment that they had been through too much for him to let him.  
He tentatively took John’s hand. It shook like a leaf as their eyes met.  
“John, I jumped because I loved you. I jumped because Moriarty had snipers on you and he forced me to fake my own death, to convince you and the rest of the world that I had died or he would tell those snipers to pull the trigger. I couldn’t come back until Moriaty’s network was gone because if I appeared they’d kill you. I can handle rather a lot; torture, loneliness, death, captivity- but I can’t fathom a world in which you do not exist John, because I love you.”  
They both smiled, then; the beautiful smiles of people who felt like the life they were supposed to live was right in front of them. For both of them, it was like a giant weight had been taken away and they no longer had to carry it. For both of them it was like the hurricane had finally stopped and they finally felt safe. Sherlock had seen John smile before, but not like that, not with every inch of his soul.  
Remaining completely faithful to everything they had been so far, the moved awkwardly into each others arms. Sherlock couldn’t believe it. He had spent year wanting this; the feeling of John’s soft, feather like hair brushing against his cheek, the warmth of John’s chest against his as their bodies moved closer, the smell of John’s soap. It was like a dream. It felt like coming home.  
They stayed like that for a long, long time. That moment was one they would remember for the rest of their lives, even when they were seventy odd, and were still bickering over human toes being left in the oven. In that moment, they were filled with a hope that they hadn’t even dreamed of. They felt secure in each other’s arms and that was more important than any passionate kiss- because it wasn’t urgent. That moment wasn’t filled with the fear that their love could end at any moment. That moment wasn’t filled with a need to convince yourself that the love of your life was really there and really loving you. That moment wasn’t filled with the need to forget a case that had brought a near death experience.  
It was so much more than that. They broke apart gently. Their eyes met and it was just the two of them against the rest of the world; just as it should be. Sherlock didn’t know who moved first, but suddenly they were kissing- a soft, kiss like the fall of snow.  
“I love you,” breathed John between kisses, as Sherlock placed his hand on his cheek.  
“I seem to have developed some form of affection for you too.”  
They giggled between kisses.


End file.
